


He'll Deliver Us

by if_i_go_there_will_be_trouble



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cults, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-31 03:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8562463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/if_i_go_there_will_be_trouble/pseuds/if_i_go_there_will_be_trouble
Summary: Sherlock is taken with a new case, that of a kidnapper who takes children from their homes in the early evenings on sundays.But the woman taking the children is doing it against her will, and wants nothing more than to be found out.  Except, the man making her take the children will hurt the kids if she is at all 'messy'.





	1. Chapter 1

“I want to go home, Mama, I want to go.  Please Mama, please,” the little boy cried.  A woman leaned over the little boy, picking him up in her arms so that his head rest on her shoulder.  The boy sniffed loudly, and burrowed his leaking eyes and nose into the crook her her neck.  

The woman began to sing, so softly, just to the little boy, rocking him in circles as she swayed.  The song had no words, just a gentle melody.  A little girl, about the same age as the boy, if not a year older, came out from a room just a few doors down the hallway, hearing the singing.  The other doors opened up, and other children entered the hall, all between six and eight, and they entered the little boy’s room where the woman was singing.  Some of them were crying, and the woman saw them all and began to cry too, and she gestured for them all to follow her, to the last door in the hallway, where she let the little girl who first came out of her room turn the knob and open up.  There was just a large bed and a simple dresser in the room.  The woman settled on the bed, still singing and hugging the boy, and all the children followed her, crying and crying.  She tucked them all into the covers around her, with barely enough space to fit them all, and kept singing.  She kept up the wordless melody until all the tears had stopped and everyone but her was deeply breathing, the mark of restful sleep.  And then she finally burrowed her face into her hands and sobbed silently.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

Sherlock didn’t like this case.  He loved this case.  It was high stakes, with already five children having been abducted; and the circumstances were frighteningly eerie.  John Watson was finished scribbling down notes and now just sat, staring at the five pictures of the children.  The kids were all different, from different school districts and families, all different socioeconomic classes and races and religions.  They all only shared a similar age, six to eight, and a similar story from their guardians.  Right now, Sherlock was lying on his couch, running through it all.  

The story was always the same.  On a sunday night, the parents had heard a knock on the door at half eight, and had opened the door to find a beautiful woman standing there.  She was tearful, but smiling like she had just been given the key to every fantasy she had ever dreamed.  She apologized for the late hour, and said that she was a teacher at their child’s school.  The child would always affirm this if asked.  She asked so politely to come in and sit down.  Sometimes they would have tea, or invite her to dinner that was already under way, and sometimes they wouldn’t.  It didn’t matter either way.  Obviously what happened next was not due to some orally ingested drug.  The parents would suddenly fall asleep, in fact, everyone is the house would, including pets.  

“Did she have a handbag?  A coat?  Any distinguishing objects?” Sherlock asked one mother.

“A leather messenger bag, a nice one.”

“Did she open it?” 

“I don’t know,” a father of another child had said.  

It was obvious to Sherlock.  The woman must have had some sort of knockout gas in her bag, especially given what came next.  The parents would fall asleep, suddenly, and then she would take the child, put them in a car seat in her car, a different one every time, which would be found to be reported stolen only a few days before, then abandoned, immaculately cleaned.  The car seat would be gone.  A neighbor said they saw a tall figure with a mask covering their face (the medical one using in infectious disease work) and a similar one of the child, leaving the house at half nine.  When one especially nosy and worried neighbor walked to the figure to demand the reason for them taking the minor, the neighbor passed out and was found shivering on the sidewalk by a man walking his dog only ten minutes later.  They said the woman sprayed them in the face with an unmarked canister of gas.  

Every week, another kid went missing on sunday night.  The police had issued a warning and a sketch two week prior, but not only had no information come in, but the kidnappings had continued.  The issue was the sketches varied so much, the woman never looking all too similar: she was always white and had brown hair, but her face took on different shapes to every guardian, different eye colors, and even her height seemed to change.

The police were baffled.  No DNA evidence at any of the scenes.  No fingerprints, even on the mugs she touched.  Nothing.  Sherlock knew why.  The woman cleaned up after herself, like she did in the car, only taking an hour between greeting the parents and going in.  

Last week, though, had been different.  Parents weren’t letting women in anymore, out of fear gripping the city.  The fifth child was not taken from their house, no.  The woman was getting desperate, maybe.  That’s what the police thought.  But Sherlock knew better.  She was calm and cold and calculating, she cleaned each scene with no sense of urgency but rather just thoroughness. 

“Snatching a kid from the playground?  With that mask on, but not using knockout or a distraction or anything?  That’s asking to be caught.  She’s desperate.”  John said.

“ ‘Asking to be caught’... John.  She is.  She’s asking to be caught, John,” Sherlock murmured.  “She’s not scared, or desperate.  She wants to be caught.  That’s why she takes so long at the houses.  Why she always wears the same mask, even though she couldn't just use the knockout gas canister in public.  She wants us to find her,” Sherlock smirked.  “She’s playing a game.”

“A game?” John echoed, remembering the words from a different mouth, a different man.  “Do you think Moriarty has anything to do with this?” 

“Moriarty has fingers in everything,” Sherlock replied.  

“So.  Either she’s playing, or she’s getting bored, or she’s drumming up attention,” John theorized.

“Look at the pattern, or lack of one. Remember how the one mother said she was tear stained, John?  I think she doesn’t want to do this.  I don’t think she’s the one playing or bored or looking for more media coverage.  I think she’s having her hand forced,” Sherlock stated, getting excited.  “If we can figure out how she’s being forced, we might be able to figure out the real perpetrator.”

John shifted in his chair, staring at the pictures of the children, all smiling at the camera.  He thought of Mary, her belly still growing, and the fact that despite their relationship had some of the worst possibly imagined trust issues, he wouldn’t give up her or the unborn child for anything.  “Do you think these children are alive, Sherlock?”

“They haven’t found any bodies, have they?” Sherlock said.

It was very little comfort to John.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

The woman sat down with the man, softly brushing his hair as he cursed aloud. 

“Nothin’ in this fuckin’ world for you and me?  Nothin’ at all.  Not since we were kids.  But we’re almost there, you know?  Almost there.  And I’m gonna make it better.  Better for you.  Better for me.  We’re going to live, okay?  We’re going to live.  Have a nice house far away from here and our own little bastards and a good time.”

The woman nodded and continued to brushed his hair, a wiry black head of it, shaved closer below his eyebrows.  

“He’s gonna deliver, right?  Make us all okay and better.  And then we can kiss and marry and watch TV and sleep all day and laugh and be alive.  He’s gonna deliver.”  The man pushed the woman’s hand away from his head, making her drop the brush, and then stood up and grabbed her face, kissing her harshly.  She didn’t react, not even to kiss back.  

“You been messy, he told me so.  You been being so messy,” the man said, as he pulled back from the kiss, still holding her face in his hand.  “You been messy and it’s going to make everything a mess.”  The man raised a hand and slapped the woman across the face, keeping her face steady with the other hand so she would have the full impact of it.  And she still didn’t react.  “He told me if you’re messy again we have to take one of the kids to him early, and he’s gonna make you do it.  You hear?  He’s not going to do it, if you’re messy.  You hear?”

The woman nodded softly, kissing the man’s hand.  The man calmed for a moment, and settled back down.  He handed her the brush, and she went back to combing his hair with it.  

\---------------------------------------------

 

John sat staring at the playground in front of him.  The police were stretched thin, one officer at every park in London and a few more patrolling the districts.  Each officer had six sketches, of five different women and one mask, one most of the people at the park agreed the kidnapper was wearing.  John rubbed his hands together, the packet on his lap.  He felt like he had looked it over a hundred times, but without any inkling of what the hell it all meant.  Sherlock was looking over the crime scenes, like he was missing a dot that he could connect across all of the places and people and solve this case in a moment of ‘Eureka’.  But there was nothing Sherlock could deduce from this case, nothing that was easy to figure out and solve with just noticing and knowing.  Sherlock needed something a little more.  And what John needed, was a cuppa and a night with Mary, a night like he had had with her before, of just shit TV and a good duvet.

John looked up at a lone boy on a swing set.  A woman came and sat next to him, humming softly.  They exchange a few words.  John looked at the woman, who looked so kind, especially when her eyes crinkled just so and her smile widened to show teeth straight and white.  She had on a thin jacket given the weather, but she wasn’t shivering, she was animated as she spoke with the kid.  The woman stood from the swing, and John saw that she had moved her vbag in front of her, an old leather messenger bag, and was rifling around with one hand and reaching out to the boy with another.  

John stood up slowly, trying to be careful and sure, watching her, as she pulled a mask from the bag.  It was just like the picture in the packet he held in his left hand.  It seemed like just a medical mask, one of the more intense ones that you might use when working with infectious disease or scraping paint off a wall.  She pulled the looped over her head, letting one rest where her atlas bone was and the other at the top of her head, pulling his slightly frizzy hair closer to her skull.  What was odd about the mask was not only the setting they were in, but the fact she gave one to the little boy too.  Neither of them would need it, as she wasn’t using the knockout gas.  

John fished his phone from his pocket, dialing Sherlock’s number as the woman took the hand of the boy and began to walk away with him.  

“What is it John?” Sherlock said, picking up the phone after the fifth ring.  John was already tailing them as they headed from the park at a leisurely pace.  Somewhere across the park, John swore he heard somewhere call out ‘Louis? Louis?’ which must have been the boy’s name.

“I found her.  She’s at the park by Jameson station, and heading towards a car.  I should message Lestrade to come here and find me.  I’m following her, but she’s going to get into a car soon, that’s her MO.”

“No, he’ll just arrest her.  We need to follow her. I’ll be there in a cab in five.”

“Why follow her?  I can arrest her now, doesn’t matter why.  We can clear it up later.”

“We need to follow her to the kids.  We need to figure out why she’s doing this.” Sherlock argued.

“Sherlock, this is a serious crime, not just another game.  We need to take her in and not just follow her to the kids.”

“It’s not for the game, John.  If someone is manipulating her, we need to know who.  If she’s in this deep, she’s not likely to tell us.”

“It’s more important,” John fumed, “to help the kids than catch someone.”

“Ever thought about that fact they might do this to more people John?  Force a different woman to kidnap more children?”

John considered for a moment, and then said, “I’m just about to turn onto-”

“John, I track your phone.  Focus on following them,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Of fucking course you do,” John grumbled.

“Did the child follow her willingly?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, and she put on one of those masks on him as well,” John said.

“The masks again,” Sherlock murmured.  “Are they in a car yet?”

“No,” John said, “she must have parked farther away. Wait,” John murmured.

The woman had stopped in front of a car, opening the door for the boy and helping to buckle him into a carseat.  She seemed to be taking her time, almost fussing over him.  At one point, John could have sworn she looked over at him and nodded slowly.

“Sherlock, she’s about to leave.  Where are you?”

“Almost there.” 

“She’s getting in the driver’s seat,” John started, but then a cab pulled up next to him, and Sherlock threw open the door.  

“She’s getting in the driver’s seat, let’s go!” Sherlock said.

They followed the woman’s car to a house on the south end of London, and Sherlock left the cab as John scrabbled for cash to pay the man.  Sherlock watched the woman unbuckle the child and him up in her arms, closing the car door with her knee.  She pulled a lone key from her pocket and opened the door to a house, large and white and quite close to the other houses.  For a moment, Sherlock swore she stopped and looked around at him, before she dropped the key on the mat and closed the door.  

Sherlock and John hurried to the door, taking the key and opening it carefully.  John pulled his phone out and texted their location to Lestrade, nodding at Sherlock as he looked back at him.  John was focused and ready, a sort of passionate fire in his eyes, prepared for any sight and to jump in right away to take care of someone suffering any bodily injury.  

“The police will be here, Sherlock.” John said.

Sherlock nodded.

John stood back, as Sherlock drew him gun, glancing around the entry room carefully.  

There was no one there.  There was very little furniture, except for a dining table with many seat around it.  Sherlock nodded to John, and both of them headed up the stairs.  In the second floor, there was a hallways of rooms, all the same kind, with a door at the end of the hallway.  John opened the doors one by one, and found children in each.  He gestured to them, a finger, whispering each time, “I’m with the police.  I’m here to bring you home.”  The children filed out into the hallway, and John glanced at Sherlock.  Sherlock nodded, and John led the children down and out, towards the street where hopefully an officer would be waiting.  

Outside, two police cars had already pulled into the street, and wear waiting, guns and kevlar vests on and ready, receiving staticy orders from the station.  As the children came out, one officer would run to them and escort them to the vehicle, the others waiting for another child, or for any sign or trouble.  

“Sherlock is still in there,” John said to one of the policemen.  

The officer nodded and leaned into his radio, “We have Holmes in there was the perp, requesting backup.”

“I’m going back in,” John said, turning towards the house.

“Sir!” The officer called, but John was already too far back in, ready to find and help his friend.   

 

The woman sat alone in her room, staring at Sherlock.  Quietly, she began to hum, patting the place next to her on the bed.  Sherlock stepped forward with little hesitation, sitting down next to her.  

John came to the doorway, and nodded at Sherlock, seeing his friend was alright.  “The police have all the children out.  We are going to take you into custody.” 

She continued humming, so softly.  A tear grew in her eye then slid down her cheek.  

“Why did you do this?  What was the point of all of this?” Sherlock asked.

The woman continued to hum, kindly, slowly reaching up a hand to touch Sherlock’s face.  John started, wanting to keep the woman from touching his friend in a moment of defense, but Sherlock put up a hand, making John stop in his tracks.  

“Why did you take the children?  How did they know you?” Sherlock asked.

The woman began to smooth Sherlock’s curls back, finger combing his hair.  Then she leaned into him, tears dripping onto Sherlock’s lap.  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered.  “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

 

\--------------------------------------------- to be continued soon.  


	2. Interrogative Counseling

Sherlock led the woman out, who had her head down.  John looked up at one of the children in the cars, only child who hadn’t been taken to the station yet, yelling and pounding on the window of the vehicle.

“Mama!” He screamed, and though tears ran down his face, he seemed to be smiling, “Mama!”  He tried the handle on the door and got free of the cop car, running towards the woman before anyone could catch him.  One of the officers, a younger one on the force, ran forward to grab the child but the kid ran even faster forward.  The woman watched, her eyes wide in fear.  Sherlock stared at her, calculating the response.  

John ran to the boy, taking the kid up in his arms as the boy struggled.  

“Mama!  I’m going home, Mama!  To my real mum and Dad!  Like you promised, Mama!  Mama!”  The boy started crying even harder, wriggling in John’s arms.  “I want to see Mama!  Let me go!”

The woman, who Sherlock was looking over as John struggled with the child, was crying as well, a smile quivering on her face as her chin trembled with emotion.  “I’m so happy for you, baby.  I’m so happy.”  She leaned to Sherlock, “Please, Mr. Holmes.  I can’t stand much longer.  Please make sure none of the children are watching if I fall.”  

“Most have headed home,” Sherlock’s brow creased with curiosity as he said.  Then, he called out, “Please get the kid back to the car, John!”  

The woman’s knee knocked together with the effort, and she locked them and waved a little, but she didn’t seem to look anywhere but at the spot where the boy dodged around the officer.  She started speaking to the boy, “Behave for Dr. Watson, he’s very nice.  Don’t look back, now.  You’re going home.”

The boy quieted and allowed John to carry him back to a waiting officer, waving a little as the officer buckled him in and drove off.  The woman, still glaring at one stop, suddenly started shaking even worse.  Right as she heard the car pull around the corner, collapsed.  She was whispering softly to herself, and Sherlock could barely catch it.  “... Will never deliver me… Scared…. Kid in the cupboard again… I don’t want… want… God… save them. ... Save the kids… Didn’t deserve this.  No one does… Don’t let him… please… don’t hurt… God, I’m sorry.”  The speech completely stopped, then she was in the fetal position, her eyes half-closed.  

John came to Sherlock’s side, bending over the woman, shining his phone’s light in her eyes when he pulled back their lids.  The pupils dilated, but her breathing had slowed.  

“Get the ‘medics over here!” John yelled out.

“What’s going on, John?” Sherlock asked.

John felt her pulse on her neck.  He looked at his watch as he counted, then shook his head.  “She’s alive, of course.  But she is suffering catatonia, it seems.  I don’t understand what could have triggered it.”

Two of the paramedics came over, with one of the officers.  The paramedics rolled her into a stretcher, picking up either side as the woman staying very still.  Her eyes seemed out of focus, not looking at anything particular, as if every sense she had.  The officer stared at the woman as she left.

“Monitor her in the ambulance, but take her to the station!” Greg called out.  “What’s going on, Officer Donahue?” Greg asked, turning to the officer who stared at the ground.

“Sorry, sir, I missed the kid.  He dodged around me,” Officer Donahue said, looking at his feet.

“Greg, Sherlock doesn’t think she-” John began.

“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked, watching the ambulance roll away.

“I’m Greg!” Lestrade fumed.

“Inconsequential.  The woman was just a pawn in this,” Sherlock stated.

“Mr. Holmes, what makes you think so?” Officer Donahue asked.

“Donahue, you should get back to the station, we need you to sketch out an armed robber,” Greg said.  

The officer left.  

“But what does make you think so, Holmes?”  Greg asked.

“She wanted us to find her, wanted to lead us to the kids.  See how affectionate that kid was to her?” Sherlock explained, barely registering anyone’s expressions as he glanced around.

“It could be Stockholm's,” Greg suggested.

“Unlikely, with that symptomology: the kids wanted to leave.  More importantly, she went into a catatonic state.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Greg probed.

Sherlock gestured to John, who sighed, “We can’t know for sure what it is for sure, but there is a definite mental illness.  Which schizophrenia is a possibility, it seems to be more something to do with Post traumatic stress disorder, depression or borderline personality disorder, which are all comorbid.  People suffering from those mental illnesses can either be indicative of an abusive situation, and sets up the sufferer to be-”

“Easily manipulated,” Sherlock put in, finishing up John’s speech.  “What car are we taking?”

“ ‘We’?” Greg echoed, scowling slightly.

“Well, either you will continue to take our help in this case with the interrogation and finding the real perpetrator, or you’ll take us in for questioning.  I hope you’ll make the right call, there,” Sherlock shrugged.

“You’re an ass, you know that?  A total smartass,” Greg mumbled, as he led them to his car.

“I’ve been told.  So I assume I’ll be leading the interrogation.”  Sherlock presumed.

“You can talk to her, but I’m leading this investigation,” Greg asserted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

The woman looked up into Greg’s eyes.  

“What is your name?”

She didn’t answer, but continued to stare.

“What’s your name?” Greg asked again.

She opened her mouth a little, all that came out was a groan, which she seemed to choke on.

“What. Is. Your. Name?” Greg asked again.

She frowned at him, twitching slightly.

“God damn it,” Greg said, taking his head in his hands.

“I should-” Sherlock started.

“No, you shouldn’t, Sherlock,” John interrupted, putting on hand on his upper arm.  “You’re good at interrogating, Sherlock.  But this isn’t an interrogation, right now.  She’s sick.  She needs a doctor.”

Sherlock nodded, accepting it.  John walked into the interrogation room and pulled Greg aside.

“What now?” Greg asked, weary and exhausted from lack of caffeine.

“Greg, I was trained in some counseling.  Right now, she’s not even able to answer your questions.  Give me just half past with her,” John requested, softly, almost pleading with Greg, knowing that Lestrade was a good man, and he would cave in. 

“I’m getting some coffee,” Greg sighed, leaving the room.

Sherlock watched from the video feed as John sat down across from the woman.  She didn’t react much, except to look up at him.

“I’m not sure what’s going on right now, but I think I might know more than your do about a few things.  Do you want to know anything?” John asked, carefully.

Sherlock might have been angry at John for giving up their little bit of leverage so quickly, but he knew that the doctor was building up trust, starting a conversation.  Getting her talking was the most important thing right now.

The woman stared for a while, then shook her head.  “The kids, are they home now?”

“They’re all at home, probably in their parents’ beds,” John stated.

“How long will I be in jail for?” She asked.

John noted how right away she was taking responsibility, how she already thought she was assigned some bunk in some concrete cell, “We don’t know what’s happened, or much at all.  So I couldn’t tell you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, simply.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For when I took those kids,” she stated, confused by the question.  “I’m sorry for all of it.”

“Are you sorry for anything else?” John asked, probing for some new information.

“I’m sorry for listening to him, for everything.”

“Listening to who?” John queried.

The woman paused for a moment, then some confusion behind her eyes seemed to settled and solidify into a decision, “His name is Peter Hansen, but you won’t find him easily.”

“What’s your name?” John asked.

Sherlock winced, it was rather tactless of John.

“He paid good money to make sure of that, and to make sure I’m gone, too,” the woman said.

“That’s okay, I just want to know what to call you,” John comforted.

Sherlock’s expression changed, a little impressed by John’s quick save.

“Chelinde Gotter,” she said, “But ‘Lin’ is what my parents called me.”

“Chelinde is a beautiful name,” John said, encouragingly.

“It never fit me quite right,” Lin reflected.

“Where’s your family, your home?” John asked.  “Should I call anyone for you?”

“Peter’s family took me in years ago.  My parents gave me up when money got too tight,” Lin shrugged.

“Should I call his family?” John questioned, a little to eagerly.

“He paid good money to make sure they wouldn’t be found, either.”

“What do you mean?” 

“He killed them, and paid off a funeral home to cremate them, and then erased both of us,” Lin explained, simply.

“Why did Peter kill his parents?” John wondered, surprise and worry evident on his face.

“Peter kept telling me that ‘he’ told Peter to,” Lin murmured.

“Who told Peter to?” John asked.

“It’s complicated.  Or it always seemed so complicated, mostly because I didn’t understand.  I thought it was a whole other person, too.  Peter kept saying that ‘he’ would deliver us, like some Biblical verse.”

“What do you mean, it was complicated?  What would he ‘deliver’ you?” John asked.

In the other room, Sherlock’s heart was pounding, his mind racing, his brain trying to take all of it in at once.  He understood parts of it before Lin even properly explained, and was trying to work out the next part of the problem.

“Peter kept talking about ‘him’, saying there was a man who was talking to him, and that the man would save us from this dirty world and help us make our own little place, somewhere.  I never knew the whole plan.  I never knew the whole story.  I never was told it.  I would ask Peter, and Peter would get angry.  See, the plan’s outcome would change everyday.  But the plan stayed the same.  Take six kids, and bring them to ‘him’.  Peter said he could only talk to ‘him’.”

“Who was this man?  What did he want?”

“ ‘He’ was Peter, Dr. Watson.  It was always just Peter,” Lin said.  “Peter’s not healthy.  But I thought for so long it was just who he was.  I rationalized it.  But then one night I walked in and Peter was talking to thin air, was talking to ‘him’.  Dr. Watson, Peter thinks he’s talking to God.  Peter thinks he IS God.”

“Did Peter make this man up?”

“Yes, and no.  Peter made ‘him’ up, and Peter is ‘him’.” Lin stopped, breathing hard, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.  I’m young and stupid and I thought so many things that weren’t true.  I thought those kids would be safe, and I thought that I would be safe, and I thought ‘he’ was not Peter and I thought Peter was healthy and kind and good.  I’m so sorry, Dr. Watson.  I’m so sorry, Mr. Holmes.  I am.”


End file.
